Lover Revealed

Chapter Nine

That pale-haired fucker was back, Van Dean thought as he glanced through thick chicken-wire fencing.

Third week in a row the guy'd come to Caldwell's fight underground. Against the cheering crowd around the fight cage he stood out like a neon sign, although Van wasn't clear exactly why.

As a knee made contact with his side, he refocused on what he was doing. Drawing back his bare fist, he snapped his arm out and connected with his opponent's face. Blood exploded from the guy's nose, a starburst of red that landed on the mat right before the man's body did.

Van planted his feet and stared down at his opponent, drops of his sweat landing on the guy's abs. There was no referee to stop Van from throwing more head punches. No rules to keep him from kicking this side of beef in the kidneys until the bastard needed dialysis for the rest of his life. And if there was even one twitch from that human throw rug, Van was going to let loose.

Bringing death with his bare hands was what the special part of him wanted to do, what the special part of him craved to do. Van had always been different, not just from his opponents but from everyone else he'd ever met: the seat of his soul was that of not merely a fighter but a warrior of the Roman kind. He wished he lived back in the times when you eviscerated your opponent when he fell before you… then you found his home and raped his wife and slaughtered his children. And after you looted his shit, you burned whatever was left down to the ground.

But he lived in the here and now. And there was another complication of late. The body holding in this special part was starting to age on him. His shoulder was killing him and so were his knees, though he made sure no one knew it, in or out of the fight cage.

Extending his arm to the side, he heard a pop and hid a wince. Meanwhile, the crowd of fifty roared and rattled the ten-foot-high chain-link fence. God, the fans loved him. Called him by his name. Wanted to see more of him.

They were largely irrelevant to his special part, though.

In the midst of the peanut gallery, he met the stare of the pale-haired man. Man, those were some freaky eyes. Flat. No glow of life in them. And the guy wasn't cheering either.

Whatever.

Van nudged his opponent with his bare foot. The guy groaned but didn't open his eyes. Game over.

The fifty or so men around the cage went apeshit with approval.

Van sprang up to the lip of the fence and swung his two-hundred-pound body over the top. As he landed, the crowd roared louder but backed out of his path. When one of them had gotten in his way last week, flyboy had ended up spitting out a tooth.

The fighting "arena," such as it was, was in an abandoned underground parking garage, and the owner of the concrete wasteland brokered the matches. The whole thing was shady by def, with Van and his opponents nothing more than the human equivalent of fighting cocks. The pay was good, however, and so far there hadn't been any busts—although that was always an issue. Between the blood and the betting, the CPD badges wouldn't have been into the scene at all, so it was a private-membership-club kind of thing, and if you squealed you got tossed. Literally. The owner had a six-pack of thugs who kept shit in line.

Van went over to the money man, got his five hundred bucks and his jacket, then headed for his truck. His Hanes undershirt was bloodstained, but he didn't care. What he was worried about was his aching joints. And that left shoulder.

Fuck. Every week it seemed like it was taking more and more out of him to serve his special part and put the guys on the ground. Then again, he was getting up there. Thirty-nine was denture time in the fight world.

"Why did you stop?"

As he came up to his truck, Van looked into his driver's side windshield. He was not surprised that the pale-haired man had come after him. "I don't answer to fans, buddy."

"I'm not a fan."

Their eyes stayed locked together on the flat surface of the glass. "Then why you been coming to my fights so much?"

"Because I have a proposition for you."

"I don't want a manager."

"I'm not one of those either."

Van looked over his shoulder. The guy was big and carried himself like a fighter, all jacked shoulders and loose arms. Iron-pan hands on this one, the kind that could crank into a fist as big as a bowling ball.

So that was the deal, huh. "You want to get into the ring with me, you arrange it over there." He pointed to the money man.

"Not after that either."

Van turned around, thinking the twenty-questions thing was for shit. "So what do you want?"

"First I have to know why you stopped."

"He was down."

Annoyance flashed over the guy's face. "So."

"You know what? You're beginning to piss me off."

"Fine. I'm looking for a man who fits your description."

Oh, that narrowed the field. Busted nose in a regular joe face with a military haircut. Snooze. "Lotta men look like me."

Well, except for his right hand.

"Tell me something," the guy asked, "did you have your appendix removed?"

Van narrowed his eyes and put his truck's keys back in his pocket. "One of two things are about to happen and you get to pick. You walk away and I get into my ride. Or you keep talking and shit goes down. Your choice."

The pale man got in close. Jesus, he smelled funny. Like… baby powder?

"Don't threaten me, boy." The voice was low and the body that backed up the words was coiled for action.

Well, well, well… what do you know. A real contender.

Van pushed his face even closer. "Then get to your fucking point."

"Appendix?"

"Not anymore."

The man smiled. Eased back. "How would you like a job?"

"I have one. And this."

"Construction. Knocking strangers around for cash."

"Honest work, both of them. And just how long have you been nosing around my biz?"

"Long enough." The guy stuck out his hand. "Joseph Xavier."

Van let that palm hang out there. "Not interested in meeting you, Joe."

"That's Mr. Xavier to you, son. And surely you wouldn't mind listening to a proposition."

Van cocked his head to the side. "You know something, I'm a lot like a whore. I like to get paid by jerkoffs. So how about you palm me a benji, Joe, then we'll see about your proposition."

As the man just stared, Van felt an unexpected shot of fear. Man, something about this guy was not right.

The bastard's voice was even lower as he spoke. "Say my name properly first, son."

Whatever. For a hundred bucks, he'd flap his gums even for a freak like this. "Xavier."

"That's Mr. Xavier." The guy smiled like a predator, all teeth, no jolly. "Say it, son."

Some unknown impulse had Van opening his mouth.

Right before he let the words fly, he had a vivid memory of when he'd been sixteen years old and had taken a dive into the Hudson River. In midair, he'd seen the massive underwater stone he was going to hit and knew there would be no change in course. Sure enough, his head had made contact as if the collision had been preordained, as if there had been an invisible string around his neck and the rock had pulled him home. But it hadn't been a bad thing, at least not right away. Immediately after the crack of impact, there had been a floating, a sweet, satisfied calm, as if destiny had been fulfilled. And he'd known instinctively that the sensation was a forerunner of death.

Funny, he had that same spacy disorientation now. And the same sense that this man with the paper-white skin was like death: inevitable and fated—and coming specifically for him.

"Mr. Xavier," Van whispered.

When the hundred-dollar bill appeared in front of him, he reached forward with his four-fingered hand and took it.

But he knew he would have listened without the cash.

Hours later, Butch rolled over and the first thing he did was look for Marissa.

He found her sitting in the corner of the room, a book open next to her. Her eyes weren't on the pages, though. She was staring at the pale linoleum tiles, tracing the pattern of flecks with one long, perfect finger.

She looked achingly sad and so beautiful that his eyes stung. God, the idea he could infect her or endanger her in any way made him want to slit his own throat.

"I wish you hadn't come in here," he croaked. As she winced, he thought about his choice of words. "What I mean is—"

"I know what you mean." Her voice hardened. "Are you hungry?"

"Yeah." He struggled to push himself up. "But I'd really like a shower."

She got to her feet, rising like mist she was so graceful, and his breath caught as she walked to him. Man, that pale blue dress was the exact color of her eyes.

"Let me help you to the bath."

"No, I can do it."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "If you try to get to the bathroom on your own, you will fall and you will hurt yourself."

"Call a nurse, then. I don't want you to touch me."

She stared at him for a moment. Then blinked her eyes once. Twice.

"Will you excuse me for a moment?" she said in a level tone. "I need to use the lavatory. You can call the nurse by pushing that red button on the remote there."

She went into the bathroom and shut the door. Water started to run.

Butch reached for the little button pad, but stopped as the rush of the sink continued to bleed through the door. The sound was uninterrupted, not as if someone was washing their hands or their face or filling a glass.

And it continued, on and on.

With a grunt, he shuffled off the bed and stood up, hanging himself on the IV pole until the thing shook from the effort of keeping him upright. He put one foot in front of the other until he got to the bathroom door. He pressed his ear against the wood. All he could hear was water.

For some reason, he knocked softly. Then knocked again. He gave it one more shot, then turned the knob, even though he would embarrass the hell out of them both if she was using the facilities—

Marissa was on the toilet, as it turned out. But the seat was down.

And she was weeping. Shaking and weeping.

"Oh… Jesus, Marissa."

She let out a shriek, as if he were the last thing on the planet she wanted to see. "Get out!"

He lurched in and sank to his knees in front of her. "Marissa…"

Burying her face in her hands, she snapped, "I would like some privacy, if you don't mind."

He reached over and shut the water off. As the basin emptied with a little gurgle, her muffled breathing took over where the sound of the faucet had left off.

"It's all right," he said. "You'll leave soon. You'll get out—"

"Shut up!" She dropped her hands long enough to glare at him. "Just go back to bed and call the nurse if you haven't already."

He sat back on his heels, woozy but determined. "I'm sorry you got trapped with me."

"I bet you are."

He frowned. "Marissa—"

The sound of the air lock being broken cut him off.

"Cop?" V's voice was unmuffled by protective gear.

"Hold up," Butch called out. Marissa didn't need more of an audience.

"Where are you, cop? Something wrong?"

Butch meant to stand up. He really did. But when he grabbed onto the IV pole and pulled, his body gave out, just went right to rubber on him. Marissa tried to grab him, but he slid from her grasp, ending up sprawled on the bathroom tile, his cheek next to the seal around the toilet base. Dimly, he heard Marissa talking in urgent bursts. Then V's goatee came into his line of sight.

Butch looked at his roommate… and shit, his vision got blurry, he was so happy to see the bastard. Vishous's face was just the same, the dark bearding around his mouth right where it should be, the tattoos on the temple unchanged, those diamond-bright irises still glowing. Familiar, so familiar. Home and family wrapped up in a vampire package.

Butch didn't let any tears fall, though. He was already hopelessly incapacitated next to a toilet, for chrissakes. Sapping out would be the cap to this gown of shame he'd pulled on.

Blinking fiercely, he said, "Where's your fucking gear, man? You know, the yellow suit."

V smiled, his eyes a little shiny as if he too were choked up. "Don't worry, I'm covered. So, I guess you're back, true?"

"And ready to rock and roll."

"Really."

"For sure. I'm thinking about a future in contracting. Wanted to see how this bathroom was put together. Excellent tile work. You should check it."

"How about I carry you back to bed?"

"I want to look at the sink pipes next."

Respect and affection clearly drove V's cool smirk. "At least let me help you up."

"Nah, I can do it." With a groan, Butch gave the vertical move a shot, but then eased back down onto the tile. Turned out lifting his head was a little overwhelming. But if they left him here long enough—a week, maybe ten days?

"Come on, cop. Cry uncle here and let me help."

Butch was suddenly too tired to front. As he went totally limp, he was aware of Marissa staring at him and thought, man, could he look any weaker? Shit, the only saving grace was that there wasn't a cold breeze on his butt.

Which suggested the hospital gown had stayed closed. Thank you, God.

V's thick arms tunneled under him and then he was lifted easily. As they went forward, he refused to let his head rest on his friend's shoulder, even though it gave him the sweats to keep the thing upright. When he was back on the bed, shivers racked his whole body and the room spun.

Before V straightened, Butch grabbed the male's arm and whispered, "I need to talk to you. Alone."

"What's doing?" V said with equal quiet.

Butch looked over at Marissa, who was hovering in the corner.

With a flush, she glanced at the bathroom, then picked up two large paper bags. "I think I'll take a shower. Will you excuse me?" She didn't wait for a response, just disappeared into the loo.

As the door shut, V sat on the edge of the bed. "Talk to me."

"What kind of danger is she in?"

"I've taken care of her and three days in, she seems fine. She can probably leave soon. We're all pretty convinced by now there's no cross-infection thing going on."

"What's she been exposed to? What was I exposed to?"

"You know you were with the lessers, true?"

Butch lifted one of his busted-up hands. "And here I thought I'd been to Elizabeth Arden."

"Smart-ass. You were there about a day—"

Abruptly, he grabbed V's arm. "I didn't crack. No matter what they did to me, I didn't say a thing about the Brotherhood. I swear."

V put his hand over Butch's and squeezed. "I know you didn't, my man. I know you wouldn't."

"Good."

As they both let go, V's eyes went to Butch's fingertips, as if he were imagining what had been done to them. "What do you remember?"

"Only the feelings. The pain and the… dread. Fear. Pride… the pride is how I know I didn't squeal, how I know they didn't break me."

V nodded and drew a hand-rolled out of his pocket. Just before he lit up, he looked at the oxygen feed, cursed, and put the cig back. "Listen, buddy, I gotta ask… you okay in the head? I mean, going through something like that—"

"I'm cool. Always was too dumb to have PTSD or some shit, and besides, I've got no real memory of what went down. As long as Marissa can walk out of here okay, then, yeah, I'm fine." He scrubbed his face, feeling the itch of his beard growth, dropped his arm. As his hand landed on his abdomen, he thought of the black wound. "You have any idea what they did to me?"

When V shook his head, Butch cursed. The guy was like a walking Google link, so him not knowing was a bad thing.

"But I'm on it, cop. I will find an answer for you, I promise." The brother nodded at Butch's stomach. "So how's it look?"

"Don't know. Been too busy being in a coma to worry about my six-pack."

"Mind if I?"

Butch shrugged and pushed the covers down. As V lifted up the hospital johnny, they both looked down at his belly. The skin was not right around the wound, all gray and puckered.

"Does it hurt?" V asked.

"Like a mother. Feels… cold. Like there's dry ice in my gut."

"Will you let me do something?"

"What?"

"Just a little healing thing I've been throwing at you."

"Sure." Except that when V brought up his business hand and started talking off that glove, Butch recoiled. "What are you going to do with that thing?"

"Trust me, true?"

Butch barked a laugh. "Last time you said that I ended up with a vampire cocktail, remember?"

"Saved your ass. That's how I found you."

So that had been the why of it. "Well, then, fly me some of that hand."

Still, as V put the glowing thing close, Butch winced. "Relax, cop. This isn't going to hurt."

"I've seen you toast a house with that bastard."

"Point taken. But the Firestarter routine isn't going down here."

V hovered his tattooed, glowing hand over the wound, and Butch let out a ragged groan of relief. It was as if warm, fresh water was pouring into the wound, then flowing over him, through him. Cleaning him out.

Butch's eyes rolled back in his head. "Oh… God… that feels good."

He went limp, and then he was floating, free of the pain, sliding into some kind of dream state. He let his body go, let himself go.

He could actually feel the healing, as if his body's regenerative processes had kicked into high gear. As seconds passed, as minutes went by, as time drifted into the infinite, he felt like whole days of rest and eating well and being at peace were coming and going, leapfrogging him from the battered state he was in back to the — miraculous gift of health.

Marissa tilted her head back and stood right under the showerhead, letting the water fall down her body. She felt shaken loose and thin-skinned, especially after watching Vishous carry Butch to the bed. The two of them were so close, the mutual bond clear in the way their eyes met and held.

After a long while, she got out, toweled herself off roughly, then blew her hair dry. As she reached for a fresh set of undergarments, she looked at the corset and thought, the hell she was putting that on. She shoved it back into a bag, unable to bear having that iron grip around her rib cage right now.

As she put her peach gown on over her naked breasts, it felt strange, but she'd had it with being uncomfortable. At least for a little while. Besides, who would know?

She folded up the pale blue Rodriguez and put it into a bio-hazard bag along with her old underwear. Then she braced herself and opened the door out into the patient room.

Butch was sprawled on the bed, the hospital gown pushed up onto his chest, the sheets down around his hips. Vishous's glowing hand was resting about three inches above the blackened wound.

In the silence between the two males, she was an intruder. With nowhere to go.

"He's asleep," V grunted.

She cleared her throat, but couldn't think of anything to say. After a long silence, she finally murmured, "Tell me… does his family know what's happened?"

"Yeah. The Brotherhood all know."

"No, I mean… his human family."

"They are irrelevant."

"But shouldn't they be—"

V looked up with impatience, his diamond eyes hard and a little mean. For some reason, it occurred to her now just how fully armed he was with his black daggers crossing his thick chest.

Then again, his sharp expression went with the weapon.

"Butch's 'family' doesn't want him." V's voice was strident, as if the explanation were none of her business and he was elaborating just to shut her up. "So they are irrelevant. Now come over here. He needs you to be close to him."

The contradiction between the Brother's face and his command to come closer tangled her up. So did the reality that that hand was the biggest help.

"He most certainly does not need me or want me here," she murmured. And wondered once again why the hell he'd called her three nights ago.

"He's worried about you. That's why he wants you to go."

She flushed. "Wrong, warrior."

"I'm never wrong." With a quick flash, those navy-rimmed white irises flipped up to her face. They were so frigid that she stepped back, but Vishous shook his head. "Come on, touch him. Let him feel you. He needs to know you're here."

She frowned, thinking the Brother was crazy. But she walked to the far side of the bed and reached out to stroke Butch's hair. The instant she made contact, he turned his face toward her.

"See?" Vishous went back to staring at the wound. "He craves you."

I wish he did, she thought.

"Do you really?"

She stiffened. "Please don't read my mind. It's rude."

"I didn't. You spoke out loud."

Her hand faltered on Butch's hair. "Oh. Sorry."

They grew quiet, both focused on Butch. Then Vishous said in a hard tone, "Why'd you shut him down, Marissa? When he came to see you back in the fall, why'd you turn him away?"

She frowned. "He never came to see me."

"Yeah, he did."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard what I said."

As they locked eyes, it occurred to her that although Vishous was scary as all get out, he was not a liar. "When? When did he come to me?"

"He waited for a couple weeks after Wrath was shot. Then he went to your house. When he got back, he said you wouldn't even come down in person. Man, that was a cold move, female. You knew he was feeling you, but you turned him away through a servant. Nice."

"No… I never did that… He didn't come, he… No one told me he—"

"Oh, please."

"Do not take that tone with me, warrior." As Vishous's eyes shot to her face, she was too pissed off to care who or what he was. "At the end of last summer I was flat on my back with the flu, thanks to feeding Wrath too much and then working in the clinic. When I didn't hear from Butch, I assumed he'd had second thoughts about us. As I… haven't had a lot of luck with males, it took me a while to work up the nerve to approach him. When I did, three months ago here in the clinic, he made it clear he didn't want to see me. So do me the favor of not blaming me for something I did not do."

There was a long silence and then Vishous surprised the hell out of her.

He actually smiled at her a little. "Well, what do you know."

Flustered, she looked down at Butch and resumed stroking his hair. "I swear to you, if I had known it was him, I would have dragged myself out of bed to answer that door myself."

In a low voice Vishous murmured, "Good deal, female. Good… deal."

In the silence that followed, she thought about the events of the previous summer. The convalescence she'd taken hadn't been just about the flu. She'd been overwhelmed by her brother's attempt on Wrath's life—by the fact that Havers, ever the calm, even-tempered healer, had gone so far as to betray the king's location to a lesser. Sure, Havers had done it to ahvenge her because of the way she had been cast aside for the queen, but that in no way excused the actions.

Dear Virgin the Fade, Butch had tried to see her, but why hadn't she been told?

"I never knew you came," she murmured, smoothing his hair back.

Vishous removed his hand, and yanked up the sheet. "Close your eyes, Marissa. It's your turn."

She looked up. "I didn't know."

"I believe you. Now close."

After he had healed her, V walked over to the door, his big shoulders rolling with his gait.

At the air lock, he looked back over his shoulder. "Don't think I was the only reason he healed. You're his light, Marissa. Don't ever forget that." The Brother's eyes narrowed. "But here's something to keep in mind. You ever hurt him on purpose and I will consider you my enemy."

John Matthew sat in a classroom that was right out of Caldwell High School. There were seven long tables facing the blackboard, and all but one had a pair of trainees plugged into them.

John was alone in the back. Which was also just as it had been at CHS.

The difference between this class and the stuff he'd taken in school, though, was that now he took careful notes and stared up front like the chalkboard was running a Die Hard marathon.

Then again, geometry wasn't ever the subject on deck around here.

This afternoon, Zsadist was at the head of the class, pacing back and forth, talking about the chemical composition of C4 plastic explosives. The Brother was wearing one of his trademark black turtlenecks and a pair of loose nylon track pants. With that scar down his face, he looked exactly like he'd done what people said he had: killed females, desecrated lessers, attacked even his Brothers without provocation.

But the strange thing was, he was a helluva teacher.

"Now for detonators," he said. "Personally, I prefer the remote variety."

As John turned over a fresh page in his notebook, Z sketched a 3-D mechanism on the board, some kind of box with wiring circuits. Whenever the Brother drew, what he put up was so detailed and realistic you could almost reach out and touch the thing.

When there was a lull, John checked his watch. Another fifteen minutes then it was time to have a light meal and hit the gym. He couldn't wait.

When he'd started school here, he'd hated the mixed martial arts training. Now he loved it. He was still last in the class in terms of technical skills, but lately he'd more than made up for that in rage. And his aggression had caused a realignment in social dynamics.

Back in the beginning, three months ago, his classmates had ridiculed him. Accused him of sucking up to the Brothers. Derided him for his birthmark because it looked like the pectoral star scar of the Brotherhood. Now the other guys watched it around him. Well, everyone except for Lash. Lash still rode him, singling him out, cutting him down.

Not that John cared. He might be in this class with the rest of the trainees, he might technically be living in the compound with the Brothers, he might supposedly be linked to the Brotherhood by the blood of his father, but ever since he'd lost Tohr and Wellsie, he was a free agent so far as he was concerned. Bound to no one.

So the other folks in this room were nothing to him.

He shifted his stare to the back of Lash's head. The guy's long blond hair was in a ponytail that rested smoothly down a jacket made by some fancy designer. And how did John know about the designer thing? Because Lash always told everyone what he was wearing when he walked in for class.

Had also mentioned tonight that his new watch was iced out by Jacob the Jeweler.

John narrowed his eyes, getting juiced up just thinking about the sparring the two of them would do in the gym. As if the guy felt the heat, Lash turned, his diamond earring sparkling. His lips lifted into a nasty little smile, then pursed as he blew John a kiss.

"John?" Zsadist's voice was hard as a hammer. "Mind showing me some respect here?"

As John flushed and looked up front, Zsadist continued, tapping the board with a long forefinger. "Once a mech like this is activated it's triggered by a variety of things, sound frequency being the most common. You can call in from a cell phone, a computer, or use a radio signal."

Zsadist started drawing again, the scratch of chalk loud in the room.

"Here's another kind of detonator." Zsadist stepped back. "This one is typical of car bombs. You wire the action box into the car's electrical system. Once the bomb's armed, whenever the car's started, tick, tick, boom."

John's hand suddenly gripped his pen and he started to blink fast, feeling dizzy.

The redheaded trainee named Blaylock asked, "Does it go off right away after ignition?"

"There's a delay of a couple of seconds. I'd note also that because the car's wiring has been redirected, the engine won't catch. The driver will turn the key and hear nothing but a series of clicks."

John's brain began firing in a rapid, flickering sequence.

Rain… black rain on a car's windshield,

A hand with a key in it, reaching forward toward a steering wheel column.

An engine turning over but failing to catch. A feeling of dread, that someone was lost. Then a bright light—

John flipped out of his chair and hit the ground, but he was unaware he'd gone into a seizure: Too busy screaming in his head, he didn't feel a thing physically.

Someone was lost! Someone… was left behind. He'd left someone behind…